


More Than Enough

by Warp5Complex_Archivist



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-03-23
Updated: 2006-03-22
Packaged: 2018-08-16 07:48:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8093914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Warp5Complex_Archivist/pseuds/Warp5Complex_Archivist
Summary: Life gets more complicated for the Tucker-Reeds. (07/08/2003)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Kylie Lee, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Warp 5 Complex](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Warp_5_Complex), the software of which ceased to be maintained and created a security hazard. To make future maintenance and archive growth easier, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but I may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Warp 5 Complex collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Warp5Complex).

"Nearly there, love."

It was the first time in over two weeks that one or other of them hadn't been too tired to contemplate it and, ass in the air, Trip sighed over his shoulder at his naked husband who was painstakingly preparing him for a spot of, supposedly spontaneous, lovemaking. The house was closed up for the night: curtains drawn, lights mostly out, kids asleep. However, Trip Tucker was up and raring to go—as, unfortunately, was the perfectionist dwelling inside Malcolm Reed!

Brows drawn together in concentration, Malcolm tried to ignore the impatience Trip radiated "I just want to make sure, Trip. Be patient."

"Patient? Patient? Fer cryin' out loud, Malcolm! Ya could get the goddamned Enterprise in there! Will ya move it along? Ah'm kinda losin' the will ta live here!"

Malcolm sniffed, insulted. "Very well. You asked for it, Mr Tucker."

"OUCH!" Trip was suddenly convinced the Enterprise was indeed berthing inside him. He tried to blink away the spots which were dancing before his eyes and started doing some of the breathing routines in which he'd seen Malcolm engage, to try to control pain shortly before Charlie was born. They hadn't worked then either.

Eventually, though, discomfort gave way to pleasure and both men began to remember why they'd been together for so long. Trip breathlessly urged Malcolm on, trembling with anticipation as he felt his lover's hand slip around under him, sliding across his belly and down, down, down towards .

"Daddy! What's you doin' to Poppa?"

Malcolm froze. Then, in a voice slightly higher and rougher than usual, Trip heard him answer their younger son: "Jo-Jo! What are you doing up? Come on, pumpkin, let's get you back to the Land of Nod."

He extricated himself from Trip and got out of bed, pulling on his robe and flipping the quilt up over his husband as he went. "Guess Poppa didn't lock the bedroom door like I asked him." The latter statement sounded like it was uttered through clenched teeth and Trip knew that, for the rest of the night—and possibly for several to come—he could wave goodbye to any kind of sex that would require Malcolm's participation!

Twenty frustrating minutes, and a resigned visit to the bathroom, later, Trip was still alone in bed and so, somewhat nervously, he rose and padded barefoot through to the boys' room. It was semi- dark, the only light coming from a revolving nightlight which projected sun, moon and star shapes onto the walls as it turned, but he could still easily see his eldest son sprawled across his bed, deeply asleep and snoring slightly.

Over by the window, Malcolm sat in the rocking chair they'd bought during his first pregnancy. He was cradling a sleeping Jon-Henry in his arms, and humming softly to himself, but he glanced up and smiled when he heard his husband's approach. He had a rather dreamy look in his eyes and Trip frowned: "Hey, ya ain't gittin' broody again, are ya?"

Standing slowly and quietly, so as not to waken their son, Malcolm made his way to Jon-Henry's bed and expertly installed the child in it, deftly soothing him right back to sleep when he stirred slightly and whimpered.

Turning his attention to Trip, he smiled a little sadly and slid his arm around him as they headed back to bed. "No. I wouldn't put you through all that again. Actually, I was just thinking how much I love you, even though you can't do a simple thing like lock the bedroom door."

* * *

As the first rays of morning sunlight peeked shyly between the curtains, orchestrated chaos broke out in the Tucker-Reed household. Both Charlie and Jon-Henry appeared to have inherited Malcolm's tendency to wake at dawn, along with Trip's inability to do so cheerfully, and it made for a fraught start to the day.

By the time Trip was dressed and stumbling downstairs, though, Malcolm's breakfast routine was well underway and operating with military precision. Although Trip was back in uniform, having returned to work with Starfleet once his husband was well enough to manage at home without him, Malcolm had opted to remain a full-time parent, occasionally doing a little weapons development work for Starfleet if they asked for his expertise.

Ruminating over a piece of toast and some thick black coffee, Trip sleepily watched his husband—and found himself grinning. Malcolm had changed so much! The tense, touchy, Starfleet automaton he'd met so many years ago was long gone, replaced by the loving husband and besotted father he now knew.

On several different counts, fatherhood had been good for Malcolm. Whilst learning to take care of small, vulnerable children (and a rather harebrained husband) he had learned to care for himself. In contrast to his days on Enterprise, he now ate and slept enough and was no longer careless of his own safety, in the name of protecting others. At long last, he was realising his own value.

It was a slow and ongoing process, Trip reflected, but Malcolm's sense of self-worth had been steadily improving since the awful weeks after Jon-Henry's birth, when he thought he was going to lose him forever. The pale ghost of a man, painfully thin and looking like he weighed little more than a child himself, was gone, replaced by the lithe, energetic creature before him—thriving on being wanted, needed and, if the growing warmth in the vicinity of Trip's groin was anything to go by, damned desirable!

Following an early-morning tussle between the boys—which resulted in a bump to Jon-Henry's nose, making it bleed profusely for a while and causing enough tears to float an armada—Malcolm was currently comforting Jon-Henry whilst, simultaneously, scolding Charlie for bullying his brother and stuffing blood-stained sheets into the washing machine.

Preferring to wait until his husband and sons were attended to before taking care of his own ablutions, Malcolm had donned a ratty pair of jeans and a baggy sweater then, enchantingly dishevelled, plunged into the domestic tasks at which he'd proved to be surprisingly adept. Perhaps making up for his own loveless and austere childhood, he was a born nest-builder and he captivated Trip—both in and out of bed.

It invariably took the engineer several attempts before he could drag himself away from his little family and it was during one of his brief dalliances with Malcolm, en route to the front door, that he noticed the light blinking on their comm-unit.

"Looks like we've got messages, darlin'"

The smaller man was focused on re-zipping Trip's uniform after a little impromptu collarbone nibbling. "Mmm. I'll pick them up later, love. If there's anything important, I'll call you at work. Might as well take advantage of you being a desk-jockey at Starfleet Engineering."

Trip gazed into the clear grey eyes, which were now smiling up at him "Yer always takin' advantage of me, darlin'. But don' ever stop!"

Finally seeing Trip off and making his way to the comm-unit, Malcolm paused to pick up a trail of toys, right an upturned lamp and return a missing shoe to a wayward infant. He smiled in contentment. Who'd have thought he'd be so happy in such a domestic setting? Fatherhood had changed him completely!

Watching his first baby sleep in his crib, tiny, perfect and helpless, he'd felt his protective instincts flare—but the old aggression was gone. Instead of spoiling for a fight, wanting to blow the bad guys to kingdom come, he suddenly saw the value in seeking a peaceful solution. He didn't want his children to suffer in some violent conflict that could have been avoided by getting a few diplomats sitting around a table together.

A shriek from the next room startled him from his daydream and he was off again, messages forgotten, to, once more, lecture Charlie on the folly of bullying!

One thing led to another throughout the day and it was only an hour before Trip was due home again that Malcolm remembered the com light was blinking. "Damn! Hope there wasn't anything important."

He pressed the "play" button and listened to the messages whilst sorting the newly dry laundry. Mostly, they were non-urgent calls and he let them wash over him while his attention was elsewhere. However, the sudden stridency of a, very English, female voice made him whirl in time to see a severe, fair-haired naval officer on the com screen. "Malcolm! I'm not in the habit of leaving messages on these things so you can call me back right away. Its important. Don't dilly-dally."

His legs suddenly weak, he sank down on a chair as the screen went dark: "Madeline! Oh God, no!"

* * *

The memory of his rather passionate farewell with Malcolm that morning spurred Trip on to finishing his work at Starfleet engineering a little early. He bounded into the house, sweeping up the boys in a hug as they ran to greet him. "Hey you two, what have ya been up to today? Drivin' yer Daddy crazy like always?"

From the kitchen, he could hear the clattering of pots and pans and the slamming of cupboard doors. Although Malcolm's cooking was seldom pretty, it was always edible and, occasionally, downright delicious. It was never noisy, though, so Trip felt a twinge of foreboding deep in his gut. Careful not to let his body language suggest that anything might be amiss, he put the children on the floor and sent them off to play outside in the garden before squaring his shoulders, taking a deep breath and opening the kitchen door.

"Hey, darlin'. How are ya'?"

Malcolm was currently whisking something to within an inch of its life and didn't look up. "Fine".

Trip felt his heart sink and decided to tackle the problem immediately. He reached around from behind his husband and hugged him, reflecting that, although Malcolm's volatility had diminished greatly in recent years, he still wouldn't have tried that manoeuvre if he'd been holding a knife instead of a whisk!

"What's wrong, Malcolm? Ah may sound like a hick but ah ain't blind nor stupid."

The man in his arms became rigid and stopped working but remained silent. His stillness was imperfect, however, as regular tremors were running through his slender frame and Trip could feel his heart, fluttering like a trapped bird, under his hand. He buried his face in Malcolm's dark hair, now flecked with the occasional strand of silver, then dropped kisses down to the rapid pulse visible at his throat.

The utensils were put down on the countertop and Malcolm slowly turned, still in the circle of Trip's embrace, to gaze up at his slightly taller husband. He looked tired and defeated: "I'm sorry Trip. Old habits die hard." Tucker enfolded Malcolm more tightly in his arms: "Its OK darlin'. Ah understan'. Shields down to 25% yet?" Malcolm chuckled: "10% and dropping. You're a lethal weapon, love."

Shaking hands plucked nervously at his uniform and Trip could feel Malcolm taking deep but quivering breaths as he tried to calm himself. "Jeez, darlin' yer strung tighter 'n a fiddle. Ah don' think ah've seen ya this worked up since our weddin' day. I dunno what's wrong but it ain't nothin' we can't handle together. Never forget that."

His heart still hammering wildly, Malcolm burrowed into the crook of Trip's neck and was hugged closer still. Eventually, he made an odd little sound, which could almost have been a short, bitter laugh. "Just when I thought I'd finally shaken them off." His voice tailed into nothingness for a moment, then he sighed heavily. "Madeline called. Mother's dead. She died three months ago."

Stunned, Trip held him at arm's length and stared at him, incredulous: "Three mon. Why the hell din' they tell ya?" Suspicion suddenly welled up and flooded to the forefront of his brain "An why're they tellin' ya now?"

Malcolm buried his face in Trip's shoulder but his reply, although muffled, was crystal clear "Madeline's been promoted to Captain and given her own ship. She's going away for an extended period and wants Father to come and live with us."

* * *

Although Malcolm had sworn off alcohol since he first became pregnant, Trip decided now might be a good time to reintroduce him to Bourbon. Swiping a bottle of Kentucky's finest from the cupboard, he snagged two mugs from the draining rack and, somehow, also managed to tow his protesting partner out to the swing seat on their back porch. He poured a generous measure into one mug: "There ya are, darlin'. Get that down ya then tell me all. Ah'm only havin' enough ta wet ma lips so ya don' need ta worry 'bout the boys. C'mon Malcolm, it'll help ya relax."

Looking less than convinced, Malcolm raised the drink, marvelling at how unsteady his hands were, after only a short conversation with his sister, and took a sizeable gulp, grimacing as it burned his throat. Subsequent mouthfuls went down a lot more easily and when Trip topped up his mug he barely objected. Settling back on the comfortably padded seat, he leaned against his husband and felt Trip's arm go around his shoulder, hugging him closer. He sighed; "Thanks love, I don't know what I'd do without you. When I heard Madeline's voice on the comm, it was like a nightmare come true and I just went to pieces. She and Father always got on really well—he calls her his "golden girl"—and she thinks and sounds just like him. Why can't I stand up to them Trip? I'm not a child anymore; I've seen and done a lot—even killed people and nearly been killed myself—but I suddenly felt like a terrified ten year old again."

Swinging the seat a little, Trip sipped thoughtfully at his drink. "Dunno Malcolm. Guess its an ingrained response for ya. But ya have ta tell yerself that things are way different now and believe in what ya are, not what ya were then."

It took another refill of Bourbon before Malcolm was calm enough to tell him what Madeline had said: "She was annoyed with me—said I always did run away from my responsibilities and so she hoped I didn't neglect the children. Apparently, I was meant to keep in touch with Mother and Father even though they never took my calls or answered my letters."

He looked away for a moment, biting his lip, and Trip heard him sniff quietly before continuing: "She said Mother had been perfectly all right, running around after Father as usual, but then she took a massive coronary in the early hours of one morning. He found her on the bathroom floor—after she'd been dead for most of the night. The odd thing is, I don't feel anything for her. I don't think I ever really felt anything for her but anger—because she let him do what he liked to me. All I remember her saying was 'Your father knows best, dear.'"

"Father's not been well himself for about a year now. Madeline didn't seem too clear about what's wrong with him—said he had "funny turns"—but she took him to live with her and they sold the house in Malaysia. Mother's funeral was held within a week of her death but there's a Memorial Service on Monday, as it was the first available date when Madeline could get all the family and friends together. She ships out the following day and says Father can't be left alone. Of course, being Father, he won't go into a nursing home or have a nurse stay with him: he says he's fine."

Despite himself, Trip snorted: "Now where'd ah hear that before?"

Scowling, Malcolm continued: "So Madeline just told him he was coming here; end of story. Then she told me."

Trip's smile faded at his husband's crestfallen expression "How long will he be stayin'?"

Malcolm tossed back the remainder of his drink then snuggled into Trip's embrace "Forever, probably. She'll be away a lot more, now she has a ship of her own, and nobody else can take him in—they're all too old themselves. That leaves us."

Trip nodded, wishing he'd had a little more Bourbon himself. "Okay. We can do this. Ah can install a vid monitor and comm-unit in the guest room. Its downstairs, near the kitchen and garden, and it has its own bathroom and a door that locks. Easy! An' ah'll put a bolt on the outside of the door too, so you can lock 'im in there if he's buggin' ya."

Malcolm laughed, "Oh Trip, I wish I could."

His husband squeezed his hand "Ah'm serious, Malcolm. He ain't screwin' ya up anymore."

Aghast, Malcolm shook his head "Don't be ridiculous. I can't lock my own father in the guest room."

Trip was unrepentant: "Oh yes ya can. How many times did he lock ya in a cold, dark basement overnight when ya were just a little bitty kid an' scared outta yer mind? Our guestroom's a palace in comparison. He can play by the rules when he's here Malcolm. If he don't like it, Phlox'll fix him up with a nursin' home someplace—Mars maybe."

A little way down the garden, Jon-Henry began to wail and Malcolm jumped: "Oh God, I should have had them bathed and in bed by now!" He stood up and immediately staggered and sat down again, rubbing his eyes "Oops! Dizzy. Must be out of practice with Bourbon."

Standing in front of his husband, Trip leaned down and planted a kiss on the top of his head "Sit tight darlin'. Ah'll get 'em. Don' wanna be fishin' all three of ya outta the bath."

Missing the warmth at his side, Malcolm watched them go into the house then reached for the bottle of Bourbon.

When Trip returned some time later, the bottle was almost empty and his husband lay curled on the swing seat, dozing peacefully. Grinning, he knelt beside him, enjoying the view.

In sleep, Malcolm's habitual rigidity was absent; his muscles relaxed, limbs loose and pliable. The corners of his mouth turned up slightly, like he was smiling at something in his dreams, and his long, elegant fingers were tangled in his hair as if he'd fallen asleep playing with it. Trip chuckled, reflecting that he probably had. It was a constant source of amusement to him that, when Malcolm was drowsy, he'd begin to twirl his hair around his index finger. As they'd grown older, it became apparent that both Charlie and Jon- Henry had the same habit and, sometimes, Trip would come home from work to find all three of them piled on the couch together, sleepily twirling their hair! He smiled at the memory and found he couldn't resist stroking the silky locks as they spilled onto his partner's forehead.

Long, dark lashes fluttered at his touch and, soon, unfocused grey eyes blinked up at him: "Hey, darlin'." Trip laughed: even half- asleep and pretty well plastered, Malcolm could still mimic his husband's drawl with disturbing accuracy.

Malcolm stretched languidly, but with his usual feline grace, and Trip was aware of a familiar stirring in his groin "Pretty relaxed, ain't ya, darlin'?"

He was rewarded with a beaming smile and another sinuous stretch "As a newt, love. Boys OK?"

Letting his eyes rove over the slim body before him, Trip only managed a distracted "Mmm", which was taken as an affirmative, then found himself engulfed in a hug. A warm tongue teased his earlobe and he let his hands wander down Malcolm's spine to rest on his compact behind. "Guess yer old man ain't botherin' ya quite so much right now."

He felt the twitch of a mile against his face then Malcolm pulled back and made a face: "Fuck 'im!" For a moment, he was contemplative then his smile resurfaced and he scrambled to his feet, struggling for balance. "Better still, Fuck ME!"

Giggling helplessly at his own bad joke, he began to wrestle himself out of his tee shirt, tossing it on the ground with uncharacteristic carelessness. Next, he unbuckled his belt and, winking at his husband, wriggled out of his pants and briefs in one movement, letting them stay where they fell. Trip gaped as, staggering a little, he managed to take off his shoes and socks, tossing them over his shoulder and ignoring the splash as they landed in the water butt just outside the porch.

It was the funniest, yet most sensual, striptease that Tucker had ever seen and it had him wishing his husband got rat-arsed more often. Still giggling, Malcolm turned his attention to his lover's uniform, frowning a little as he tried to decide which of the two jumpsuit zippers he was seeing was the real one.

"Malcolm, what the hell d'ya think yer doin'? George an' Amy next door have friends visitin' for a barbecue. If they look over here they'll see us!"

"Wossit look like I'm doin', pillock?" He reached up and kissed Trip rather messily, missing his lips the first time, and ground his hips against him. "'S ages since we made love on the lawn."

Grabbing the hands that were, once more, trying to get him undressed, Trip tried to reason with him. "Darlin', there weren't nobody livin' next door at that time. Anyhow, you're the one who feels all shy an' self-conscious hangin' out the damn laundry, in case they try ta strike up a conversation with ya!"

Sticking his tongue out, Malcolm finished off the dregs of the Bourbon then tottered onto the lawn and collapsed in a giggling heap, wiggling his backside at his exasperated husband. "C'mon Trip. Don't be a spoilsport."

Malcolm's little display had Trip aching for release—but being the main entertainment for next-door's barbecue sure as hell wasn't on his agenda. Their half-prepared dinner forgotten, and his uniform flapping around his waist, he scurried over to his lover, hauled him to his feet then hoisted him over his shoulder. Pausing only to slap his rump and tell him to stop struggling, he hurried into the house, going straight to the guest room. "Much as ah love ya an' want ya right now, Malcolm, ah ain't performin' fer an audience. Anyways, ah got a better idea: let's christen yer daddy's new quarters."

Being upside down had left Malcolm dizzy and a bit dazed, so Trip tossed him onto the bed, pecked him on the cheek then ducked into the bathroom, returning moments later with a towel and a bottle of liquid soap. "Okay darlin', here comes the cavalry."

Within moments, Malcolm was yelling in ecstasy and hanging onto the bed's headboard for dear life! Trip had never seen him quite so uninhibited and it excited him beyond his wildest imaginings, spurring him on as his husband writhed and bucked beneath him. When it was all over, he collapsed on top of Malcolm, bathed in sweat, his heart pounding. "Wow, darlin'! That was somethin' else Are ya happy now?"

Malcolm's only reply was a soft snore.

* * *

In his career as an Armoury Officer, Malcolm Reed had been injured many times and came close to death on a number of occasions. Never before, though, did he recall having such a blinding headache.

Cautiously, he opened his eyes and found himself staring at a rather unfocused version of Trip Tucker's smiling face. "Ooh! What the hell's so funny? My bloody head's killing me!"

Trip forced a sympathetic expression for his benefit "Ah know, darlin. Here: take these. Doctor Phlox's patent hangover cure never fails."

Somehow managing to sit up, Malcolm dutifully swallowed the pills, along with a gulp from the offered glass of water, and was immediately sick into the waste bin Trip had brought with him from the bathroom.

"Easy Malcolm. Ah kinda thought that might happen, so a brought ya another dose."

Unfortunately, the second dose went the way of the first and Malcolm elected to struggle on un-medicated.

When he finally got himself onto his feet and moving, Charlie and Jon- Henry were both dressed—albeit in un-ironed clothes from the "Clean Laundry" basket—and playing under the kitchen table. Remnants of their breakfast clung to their faces and were scattered around them on the floor. In the midst of it all, Trip sat serenely, eating toast and looking supremely pleased with himself. "Got 'em all ready fer ya Darlin'. Want some coffee?"

Nodding, then regretting it as his head pounded even harder, Malcolm slumped at the table while he was presented with a steaming black mugful. "Ah gotta get ta work, but just leave the chores and ah'll see ta them later. You concentrate on yerself and the boys. Love ya." Kissing all three of them and brushing toast crumbs from the front of his uniform, he dashed off for his shift. Malcolm, meanwhile, threw up, all over the kitchen table, the two mouthfuls of coffee he'd managed to swallow.

It was going to be a long day.

* * *

That evening, Trip returned to find his dinner in the oven, the housework done and the place reeking of disinfectant. Just as he was preparing to berate him for working so hard, his eyes fell on Malcolm, Charlie and Jon-Henry in a slumbering heap on the couch. The boys' dirty dishes were still on the table, which, he noticed, with a knowing smile, was missing its cloth. Grinning at the peaceful tableaux before him, he took a hasty meal then gently extracted the children from their father's grasp and headed for the bathroom.

An hour later, while Trip was still reading the boys their bedtime story, Malcolm appeared, ghostly pale, at their bedroom door—watching as, immaculately clean and smelling of shampoo and talc, they lay peacefully drowsing to their Poppa's southern drawl. Although bending over made his head spin, Malcolm gave each a goodnight kiss then, waiting for them to fall asleep, sat at the foot of Charlie's bed, the rocking chair certainly not being advisable for him tonight.

Satisfied that the story had done its job, Trip turned his attention to his husband: "How're ya feelin', darlin'?"

Managing a wan smile, Malcolm took his offered arm and wobbled to his feet: "Like a very bad father. Guess it runs in the family."

Trip squeezed his waist then led him to their own bedroom "Ah ain't gonna dignify that remark with an argument. Now you, mah poor baby, are havin' an early night too. Get yerself into bed an' ah'll bring ya some nice semolina. It worked a treat when ya had mornin' sickness and ah'm sure it'll work again."

By the following day, Malcolm was back to normal and able, once more, to fret about his father. The guest bedroom was cleaned and made ready for Stuart Reed, Trip setting up the comm-unit and vid-link, and Malcolm installing a table-top refrigerator, automatic hot water point and a hefty supply of tea, coffee and biscuits so that the Admiral wouldn't have to put his nose outside of his own room any more than necessary.

It was all becoming horribly real.

Since their regular baby-sitters were out of town, or unable to help at such short notice, it was arranged that the whole Tucker-Reed family would attend the Memorial Service in England and collect the Admiral while they were there. Malcolm was, predictably, dreading it, fussing over the house and children until all three shone with the brightness of a Royal Navy officer's buttons.

They were about to leave for the shuttle terminal when Malcolm disappeared and Trip found him straightening his father's bed-to-be for the umpteenth time. "Darlin'.."

"I'm sorry love. I just had to be sure. You didn't leave the boys alone, did you? They're probably playing in the rose bed by now .."

Strong arms enfolded him closely and he gave a shuddering sigh "I can't help it. He's always picked holes in everything I've ever done. I don't want to give him any ammunition."

Trip squeezed him then began to muss his perfectly-groomed hair "Its more important that ya don' give him any power over ya. Me an' the boys love ya jus' fer bein' yerself—so who cares if he finds fault. As someone we both know well said not so long ago, 'Fuck 'im!'"


	2. Chapter 2

The sun shone brightly on the day of Mary Reed's Memorial Service.

The Tucker-Reeds arrived in the seaside village, which had been Malcolm's home for much of his childhood, an hour before the service was due to start. It looked much as it would have back in the 21st Century, its small, while-painted cottages nestling atop seagull- strewn cliffs, with grander houses further inland. Below the village was a tiny stone harbour, reached by a steep flight of steps comprising wooden planks embedded in the soil and deserted now in favour of an extensive marina further down the coast.

Grim and forbidding, the Reed residence—or "Bleak House" as Malcolm referred to it—stood a little apart from the other homes. It seemed to frown on the cottages with their cheerfully-painted doors and brightly coloured gardens, overflowing with old-fashioned specimens of roses and sweet peas.

Malcolm shuddered as he remembered the miseries he'd suffered in that place which he'd never called "home". A buffet lunch was to be served there after the Memorial Service and prior to their departure with the Admiral. It was hard to decide which event to dread the most.

Entering the churchyard through the ancient lychgate, they walked among the well-tended graves to the Reed family's mausoleum. It was a somewhat pretentious granite and marble structure, overgrown with ivy and crowned with a well-weathered effigy of Britannia—another bloody expert at ruling the waves, Malcolm observed bitterly. Hesitantly moving a little closer to her last resting place, he paid his respects to the mother who'd never really been able to love him.

Trip, trailing Charlie and Jon-Henry behind him, approached his spouse: "Ya okay, darlin'?"

Malcolm looked up and smiled "Yes, I suppose so. I'm just sorry that we never really connected; she was always so distant." He paused, thinking about what he'd said: "Trip, please make sure I don't ever do that to the boys. You will tell me if I'm hurting them, won't you?"

Before Trip could respond, they were startled by a soft, English- accented, voice behind them. "You'll never hurt them, my dear, because you know what the pain's like yourself."

Malcolm whirled to see a spry, silver-haired woman, of indeterminate age, wearing a vivid crimson coat and hat and impossibly high-heeled shoes. "Aunt Cherie! Oh, its wonderful to see you again. I'm so sorry we lost touch."

She stepped back and looked him up and down "So am I—after all, we black sheep have to stick together—but we can sort that out now, can't we? My, you look better than I've ever seen you. Its clear you're thriving on married life. I take it this is your young man?" A little shy all of a sudden, Malcolm blushed and began a rather stilted introduction: "Oh! I'm sorry: Aunt Cherie Reed, this is my husband."

Trip squeezed his hand reassuringly then stepped forward and gave the woman a courtly bow "Charles Tucker III at your service, Ma'am. Ah'm honoured ta meet ya." She smiled, brown eyes twinkling, "The honour's mine, Mr Tucker—by the way, when you meet the others, please remember I'm only a Reed by marriage! And these two cherubs are .?"

Malcolm lifted Jon-Henry, who had started to retreat behind Trip's leg, and took Charlie by the hand "Our eldest is Charlie, and this is Jon-Henry. Say 'hello' to Aunt Cherie, boys." Two little voices piped up with uncertain greetings and the woman was enchanted. "What a pair of little poppets you are! I'll bet you're not nearly so quiet and shy at home though! Come on into the church and I'll show you where the crche is. I'm sure they'd rather play than listen to some stuffy old vicar for an hour. Come to think of it, so would I!"

The children wasted no time in making themselves at home among the treasure trove of toys in the crche and barely noticed when, after thanking the nursery leader for looking after the boys, Malcolm and Trip took their leave. Aunt Cherie led them into the still-deserted sanctuary and they settled in one of the Reed pews.

"So, Malcolm, tell me all. The last I heard, you were being disowned by the entire Reed family for becoming pregnant. Congratulations! Seriously, how did you cope, my darling? I'm afraid I didn't even know that men could have babies! How...how exactly do you go about such a thing?"

Malcolm flushed bright red and Trip came to his rescue. "Hope ya don' mind me answerin' ya Ma'am. Malcolm found the whole thing a bit embarrassin' but he went through with it 'cause I wasn't able ta, medically speakin'".

She laughed, "I well remember the indignities of pregnancy myself! They were second only to having my son take after his father. Do go ahead, Mr Tucker."

He grinned, liking her immensely. "First of all, Ma'am, ah'd be pleased if ya'd call me Trip—all ma friends do." She nodded her acquiescence "Alright—but remember I'm your Aunt Cherie too now, Trip." He nodded and continued: "When we decided ta start a family, we thought it'd all have ta be done in vitro but a doctor friend of ours had researched methods for inter-species pregnancy and managed ta adapt the process ta our needs. It was experimental, an' carried real risks, but Malcolm felt it was best fer the babies, an' was brave enough ta wanna try it, so we did.

"Samples of our se..., umm, genetic material were sent to a lab where the boys were actually conceived, if you will, in artificial wombs, with an egg that was modified to contain only Malcolm's genes. He underwent a lot of hormone treatment and then had one of those "wombs" implanted in him—after the doctor had removed his appendix an' spleen and some other kinda unnecessary bits that were jus' takin' up space. It was all done in such a way that the embryos were able ta draw sustenance from 'im an' grow jus' like they would in a woman."

Aunt Cherie laughed, wide-eyed; "Isn't science marvellous! But weren't you in a lot of discomfort, Malcolm?"

Malcolm took up the story "Well, yes, I suppose so. I got progressively more tired and sore as time went on—and a little run- down towards the end. When the babies got too big for me to carry any longer, I was in pain all the time, a little like going into labour, I'd guess, and they were removed by Caesarean Section. Everything was very straightforward with Charlie. With Jon-Henry, there were some complications—but we all lived to tell the tale and it was well worth the trouble." He finished breezily, with a smile that clearly begged for a change of subject.

Trip was having none of it and gave his husband a squeeze "He's leavin' out the part where he haemorrhaged twice an' we damn near lost 'im. He was quite poorly for a while after he got home too." He gave Malcolm a knowing look then kissed him gently on the forehead. "He wen' through hell an' ah've a lot ta thank him for. Hey! Wanna see his scars?"

A short tussle ensued and Malcolm, beet red, found himself sitting in church, with his shirt pulled up to his chest, while Trip proudly took his elderly aunt on a guided tour of his stomach. In spite of his mortification, though, he discovered he was basking in Trip's obvious love and appreciation. With such a wonderful man at his side, he suddenly felt sure he could cope with anything the Reeds threw at him.

Approving of Trip's affectionate regard for her nephew, Aunt Cherie hugged them both "You know, I'm so glad to see you two together. I always used to worry about Malcolm but now I can die happy, knowing how much he's cared for." Hearing a sound at the church doors, she glanced over her shoulder: "Uh-oh. Here comes trouble."

As other family members began trickling into the church, Aunt Cherie kept both men chuckling with her running commentary of who was who, and what she thought of them. ". and that's Malcolm's second cousin Nigel. My late husband used to say he was an empty-headed layabout, living off his family—but then it takes one to know one, doesn't it?" She smiled sweetly and Trip exploded with laughter, just as a petite, fair-haired woman in naval dress uniform strode in and sat in the front pew. Aunt Cherie saw the realisation in Trip's eyes: "Yes, and that's Saint Madeline, your sister-in-law. She who can do no wrong."

Trip smothered a snigger but felt Malcolm tense beside him as another figure loomed into view a short distance behind her.

"Father."

* * *

Admiral Stuart Reed sat rigidly beside his daughter in the front pew of their local church. Generations of Reeds had worshipped here and were now interred within its walls or in the churchyard beyond. It gave him a sense of continuity to know that his late wife, Mary, had been laid to rest here—as would he be, when the time came. He stole a glance at Madeline. A fine girl, he thought, now a successful captain in the Royal Navy and a credit to her family: the apple of her father's eye. Of course, at the moment, he was less pleased with her than usual—although he did understand her reasons for upsetting him. Tomorrow, she would leave to take up her first command with the HMS Water Sprite. It would be a proud day for both of them, were it not overshadowed by the fact that, due to age and infirmity—most certainly not out of choice—he was going to have to live indefinitely with her older brother and his...his...dear God, his HUSBAND!

Trying in vain to distract himself by concentrating on the voluntary being played by the ancient church's ancient organist, he looked round himself, nodding to various, rather geriatric, family members and friends who had gathered to pay their respects to Mary Reed. A fine family, the Reeds, he mused. They could trace their line back to the days of Nelson, since when Reed after Reed had displayed courage and fortitude in many a naval battle. Stuart Reed himself had had a distinguished career and took his retirement hard. Fixing his eyes on the cross above the altar, he silently thanked God that his daughter, at least, was carrying on the family tradition.

Impatient for the service to start, he looked round and scanned the back of the church, searching for the appearance of the choir and the parish priest. His gaze fell on his troublesome sister-in-law, Cherie, in a get-up like a bloody harlot's as usual. Beside her, sat two neatly-dressed men, approximately half her age. The Admiral grunted: he'd had his suspicions for a while that the old girl led a wilder life than was proper for a widow-woman of her years, but to have the gall to bring two of her fancy-men to his wife's Memorial Service—total bloody strangers at that! There was something familiar about one of them, though: the slight build, the nervous mannerisms—it couldn't be, could it?

In seconds, he was sure and on his feet, marching up the aisle just as the choir began to file into the church. "You there! You!" he bellowed, pointing at one of Cherie's companions, "Get out of this place, you filthy, fornicating little sod. Your mother was a religious woman: how dare you disgrace her by coming in here, bold as brass, with your partner-in-sodomy, no less ."

Madeline was behind him now, tugging urgently at the Admiral's sleeve "Father! Father, stop it! You're going to have to go and live with them tomorrow! Oh my God, come on: the vicar's here!"

Grateful for the diversion, Malcolm fled, aware of every pair of eyes in the church following him. Behind him, he could hear Aunt Cherie trying to calm Trip, who was now squaring off with the Admiral.

Not really knowing why, he stopped running when he reached the mausoleum. His eyes blurred with tears of humiliation and anger, he could just make out the long list of names on the family tomb, the most recent being that of Mary Reed. He'd only scanned the inscription before but now he read it in full—and felt as if an arrow had pierced his heart. Hearing running footsteps, he turned and saw Trip approaching, face red with anger. "Darlin' let's find the boys and get outta here. He ain't getting a second chance ta hurt ya."

Malcolm straightened slightly as his lover reached for him. "No."

"No? Malcolm, what the hell are ya talkin' about?"

His fists clenched at his sides, Malcolm tried to control the trembling of his voice. "I want him to come and stay with us. Whether he likes it or not, he still has a son and I'm not going to let him deny that any longer."

He raised his chin proudly, scrubbed at his eyes, to make sure they were dry, then stalked back towards the church.

Trip glanced at the inscription Malcolm had been reading. Below the dates of Mary Reed's birth and death it read "Beloved wife of Stuart and dear mother of Madeline."

His temper rising again, he glanced up as a sudden movement caught his eye. A seagull had perched atop Britannia's head and was busily coating her in excrement. He chuckled: "Way ta go, birdie! A hope ta hell yer a good omen."

Hearing the choir finish an anthem which, he thought, sounded a bit like someone was torturing a cat, he followed Malcolm back to the church, meeting Aunt Cherie anxiously prowling in the vestibule. She reached up to cup her nephew's face in her elegantly manicured hands "Are you alright, my poor darling?"

Smiling a little shakily, Malcolm kissed her cheek "I'm fine now, Aunt Cherie. Don't worry: he's not going to win this time. You go back in and we'll follow you in a moment."

Still obviously concerned, she took her leave of them and Trip nudged Malcolm's arm "So...did ya have some kinda revelation out there?" Malcolm's hand slipped into his "Yes, I think I did. All of my life, I've worried about pleasing him and felt defective because I couldn't. I've taken everything he threw at me, thinking I deserved it—but I don't, and I won't run away or give him that power over me any more." His voice was strong and steady as he stared down at their linked fingers but, when he looked up, Trip saw a glimmer of uncertainty in his eyes. "Darlin', yer the bravest, kindest, cleverest, han'somest guy ah've ever known—besides ma own self, of course—an' if yer daddy says different, then he's a black-hearted liar." Malcolm's eyes misted a little and he coloured somewhat as Trip continued: "O' course, if he mentions that yer a cantankerous li'l shit who can't appreciate good harmonica music an' wouldn't know a classy shirt if it jumped up an' bit 'im, then ah'm with 'im all the way!"

They were still both laughing as they made their way, hand in hand, down the aisle to their seats, careful to defiantly meet the disapproving stares from the congregation. In a display of solidarity, Aunt Cherie rose and kissed them both as they came to sit with her "I'm afraid its Reverend Popplewell today, dears. He's such a tedious old goat. I went out with him, you know: he was the most boring boyfriend I ever had. We went to the school dance together, when I was fourteen, and he talked about philately all evening. His older brother asked me up for a waltz and I ended up slipping off to an empty classroom with him and losing my virginity." She smiled beatifically, lost in fond remembrances: "Be a love, Malcolm, and wake me for the Benediction."

* * *

Mary Reed's memorial service would never go down in history as a musical feast and, as the choir mangled their last piece, Trip couldn't help wondering what permanent damage had been done to his eardrums!

Immediately heading for the crche to pick up their sons, Trip and Malcolm were pleased to see the boys happily playing with the other children whose parents were attending the service. Their joy was short-lived, however, as said parents, upon realising whose children the two little blond boys were, abruptly led their own offspring out of the room, warning them to stay away from 'the little boys with two daddies.'

On the short walk up to the Reed house, Trip and Malcolm were approached by Malcolm's eldest cousin, Lt. Commander Edward Reed, RN. "Well, well, if it isn't my long-lost cousin Weedy Reed the spaceman! You finally decided to pay us a visit then. Aren't we the honoured ones?"

Careful to maintain a pleasant expression, Malcolm looked up at the burly naval officer "I would have been at Mother's funeral too, had someone notified me of her death."

Cousin Edward smirked "Yes, well I don't think your father needed any more grief to cope with at that time."

His twin daughters, a couple of years older than Charlie, had caught up with them and, eyeing the Tucker-Reed boys curiously, instigated what appeared to be a game of tag. Edward immediately called them back: "Now girls, didn't your mother and I just tell you to leave them alone?"

Malcolm stopped walking: "If you have an objection to the way I live my life, I'd be grateful if you'd take the matter up with me—instead of taking it out on my children."

Edward sent his daughters back to their mother, a woman considerably younger than him, who, when he'd seen her in church, Trip had described as having 'a face like Granddaddy Tucker's old grey mare'.

"Children, Malcolm? They're genetically-manipulated freaks with a pair of fairies for fathers!"

As he spoke, Charlie, who'd been disturbed to lose his two newest playmates so soon, broke away from Trip and ran back towards the twins. Edward lunged for him, catching him roughly by the arm: "Oh no you don't, boy!"

Swiftly, Malcolm freed his son and comforted him "Charlie, love, go back to Poppa please. Its alright. You haven't done anything wrong. Everything's going to be fine."

Wide-eyed and snuffling, Charlie obeyed and Malcolm returned his attention to his cousin "Don't you ever lay a hand on either of my children again or ."

Flexing his wrist after Malcolm had grabbed it to free his son, Edward interrupted him: "Or what, Weedy? There wouldn't be a problem if you'd keep them away from normal children."

"Or this!"

He never knew what had hit him. In seconds, he was face-down in the ditch running along the grassy verge at the side of the road, his pristine uniform covered in pondweed, mud and frogspawn. Malcolm stepped back and dabbed a couple of splashes of water off his suit with his immaculate white handkerchief. "Consider that a warning from the fairies, Edward. Say or do anything else to hurt my sons and I'll play rough next time."

Knowing his husband well enough to leave him to deal with the situation, Trip had walked on ahead and was waiting outside the house when Malcolm jogged up to join him. "That was poetry in motion, darlin'. Now c'mon, let's get the rest of this over with and get the hell outta here."

Although the other guests kept a wary distance from the Tucker-Reeds, the remainder of the day passed without incident; Aunt Cherie playing with the boys, Trip working his way through the buffet with the focused efficiency of a vacuum cleaner and Malcolm counting the seconds until they could leave.

At last, as the caterers cleared up and, after the family members and friends had said their farewells to the grieving widower, Madeline appeared at Malcolm's side. She had an enormous trunk on a wheeled trolley and her father in tow. "Alright Father, its time to go now. I'll contact you tomorrow, once we're at sea, just to let you know how I'm doing. Goodbye."

With that, she turned and went on her way, no doubt fully occupied now with thoughts of her new assignment on the morrow.

Malcolm and his father appeared to be trapped in a glaring contest—neither willing to begin the journey they were both so reluctant to take—and Trip eventually had to break the deadlock. He took charge of the trolley, patting the top of the trunk and gesturing to the boys to climb onto it: "Daddy's kinda busy right now, so hop on, guys. Ah think we're all in for one wild ride"

* * *

Listening to the soft, regular breathing of his sleeping husband, Trip Tucker lay in his bed and gazed drowsily up at the ceiling. The journey home had been tense and silent but the rest of the evening had gone surprising smoothly. Admiral Reed had been shown his room, given a quick rundown on mealtimes and the general rules of the house and had, since then, kept himself to himself. If only it would stay that way, he thought.

Suddenly, an unearthly screeching filled the air. Trip sat bolt upright, trying to make sense of it while Malcolm, wakened from slumber, had shot straight out of bed and was standing in the middle of the room, barely awake but wild eyed and tensed, ready to fight whatever threat had just declared itself. Listening intently for a few seconds, he abruptly relaxed, and climbed back under the covers. "Fuck! I should've known he'd bring that bloody radio with him. It's a massive, old-fashioned thing his great-grandfather had before him and he can tune it in to the shipping frequencies and eavesdrop on his old cronies if they're not on secure channels. I'm amazed it still works." He pummelled his pillow then flopped back on it, yawning: "'Night love."

Still groggily trying to make sense of what had just occurred, Trip lay back down and marvelled at how normal Malcolm was—for a Reed.

* * *

Stuart Reed was quietly fuming. Since the unseemly row in church, when he suspected he'd embarrassed himself more than his son, anger had seethed inside him. Being passed between his offspring like some bloody parcel had done nothing to assuage the roiling fury and now, having been courteously shown his new quarters, warned not to speak to the children, and then left to his own devices, he was feeling distinctly marginalized. It did not sit well with him.

To be truthful, he hadn't expected Malcolm to agree to take him in—but then the little fool had never reacted normally to anything. He began to unpack, first of all finding places for the photographs at the top of his belongings. Within a gold-edged, tortoiseshell frame was a picture of he and Mary on their wedding day. He smiled at his younger, sandy-haired self, resplendent in Royal Navy uniform with his plumply pretty, dark-haired bride looking up at him adoringly. Malcolm took his colouring from his mother but Madeline, God bless her, was entirely his. She'd been his pride and joy from the start: a bonny, bouncing baby, then a bright, robust child—fair-haired and blue-eyed, with self-assurance much older than her years.

Malcolm, on the other hand, had been a disappointment from birth. He'd been an anxious, fretful baby, a poor feeder and most definitely the runt of the litter. Slow to walk and even slower to speak, he crept through life in Madeline's shadow—a magnet for bullies and an unwilling participant in Stuart's plans for his children. Madeline had quickly earned the nickname "the little mermaid", during family visits to the swimming pool, but her brother stood rigidly in the shallow end, holding fast to the handrail at the steps and refusing to let go. When Mary left to take Maddy to the lavatory, an exasperated Stuart grabbed his six-year-old son and threw him in at the deep end, telling him to sink or swim.

As he'd done with everything else that mattered to his father, Malcolm sank. By the time Mary and Madeline returned to the pool, he was conscious but dazed, wrapped in a towel and receiving oxygen from the in-house medic while, unrepentant, Stuart Reed berated him for "not even trying" to swim.

The decision to send him away to boarding school was made that night—but, of course, that had been a bloody waste of money. Too shy and over-sensitive to enjoy life there, Malcolm had withdrawn into himself, failing exam after exam and refusing to come out of his shell no matter how much detention he was given. Naval college was no more successful in making something of him, his reports remaining abysmal, and it was only when sent to stay with his newly-widowed Aunt Cherie for the summer of his 17th year that he suddenly blossomed—although not the way his father had hoped.

During the stay with his aunt, Malcolm discovered that there was an existence to be had outside the Royal Navy. As she enjoyed her freedom after an unhappy marriage to Stuart Reed's older brother, Cherie taught her nephew about art, music, literature and life. Her own joie de vivre rubbed off on him and he found his singing voice, his imagination and, for the first time ever, his confidence. He learned to draw, to laugh and even to swim—albeit rather haltingly—and discovered a talent for problem-solving that would stand him in good stead later in life.

Under his breath, Stuart Reed cursed Cherie. His son had returned home with a mind of his own and their already rocky relationship had deteriorated further. When Malcolm abandoned the navy in favour of Starfleet, it had been the last straw and it was made clear to him that he was not welcome at home. His calls and letters dwindled and Stuart knew he, and the Royal Navy, had lost their hold on his son for good.

* * *

Charlie Tucker-Reed was fascinated by the big, fierce man who had come to stay. He peeked at him from behind the living-room curtains as he made his way out into the garden, the rubber end on his walking- stick thumping on the wooden floor of the porch. Daddy had told him to stay out of the man's way but curiosity was rapidly getting the better of him and he slunk out, intending to head for a secluded little hidey-hole he'd discovered, behind an overgrown azalea, which would afford him an unobstructed view of the interloper in his home.

A floorboard betrayed him with a creak and he suddenly found himself imprisoned by the older man's glare. "What's wrong boy? Sneaking around behind my back like a coward, eh? That's what your father used to do."

Charlie didn't know what a coward was but he decided to stand his ground "Are you my daddy's daddy? Poppa says you are but you don't look like him."

The Admiral grunted "Yes, well, Unfortunately, I suppose your Poppa's right."

"Did you tell Daddy bedtime stories when he was little, an' cuddle 'im an' tickle 'im an' buy 'im a bicycle?"

This time, his question was met with a long silence.

"Well?"

"No, I don't believe I did."

Charlie knit his blond brows and a fledgling furrow appeared between them "Was he a naughty boy? Is that why you didn't buy 'im anything?"

Uncomfortable with the conversation, the Admiral turned back to the newspaper he'd brought out with him on a padd: "I'm very busy just now, boy. I think you should go off somewhere and make yourself useful."

"What's 'useful'?"

"Something your father's never been in his life. Now, on your way."

He waved his stick at the child but Charlie was too absorbed now to be afraid and, instead, he actually moved a little closer. "My Daddy's very brave. Are you brave?"

The Admiral decided to ignore the precocious child but, after a couple of minutes of quiet, he felt a tug on his sleeve "Are you?"

"Yes—now bugger off."

"What's 'bugger'?"

Charlie jumped when he suddenly heard Malcolm's voice behind him "It's a word I don't expect anyone to use in front of my children. Go play with Jo-Jo, love. I want to talk to your...Grandfather."

Smiling brightly up at his father, Charlie puckered his tiny pink lips, expecting and receiving a kiss, then ran off down the garden to where his brother was failing to build a tower with coloured plastic bricks. Malcolm watched him fondly then turned back to his father. When he spoke, his tone was low and dangerous: "Didn't I tell you to leave him alone?"

His father scowled up at him "He came to me."

Malcolm gave a snort of laughter "Hah! Of course! I forgot about your natural magnetism."

"He was asking about you."

Now Malcolm looked uncomfortable "What did you tell him? That I was just a piece of shit that stuck to your shoes for a while until you scraped me off and threw me away? That I deserve to be humiliated at my own Mother's Memorial Service and go unmentioned on her gravestone? That I'm an abomination in the eyes of God because I married the man I love and wanted to have my own children?"

The Admiral's cheeks flushed with rage: "I may have thought so but I didn't say it."

Malcolm leaned over him until they were almost nose-to-nose, for the first time in his life menacing his father: "You have nothing edifying to say to my sons. Stay away from them."

* * *

Days drew into weeks and an uneasy peace descended on the Tucker-Reed household. Although he never caught him in the act, Malcolm suspected that, when his back was turned, Charlie was still hanging around his father and it was something of a relief when the Admiral took to having a morning walk round the neighbourhood—sometimes not returning until late-afternoon. Delighted at the respite, Malcolm gave him his spare set of house keys and told him not to feel he had to hurry back!

The late-night bursts of screeching and static, when Reed senior was tuning his radio to the shipping frequencies, continued to catapult Malcolm from his bed at odd moments but, on the whole, he was coping better than he'd hoped with having his nightmare living in the guest room!

Trip was proud of him, and repeatedly said so "Y'know 'darlin, ah was real scared he'd drag ya right down but yer handlin' this like a lion- tamer! Ah know its takin' it outta ya, but ah'm just so thrilled that yer standin' up ta 'im an' not lettin' 'im get ya all riled up or depressed."

Exhausted and getting ready for an early night, Malcolm smiled wearily at him "Thanks love. I couldn't do it without you though. You and the boys remind me about what's really important in my life—oh, and it certainly helps that the ancient mariner has taken to going out for most of the day!"

They climbed under the covers and snuggled together, Trip's hand making gentle circles on his husband's stomach, sneaking lower with each rotation. Malcolm groaned "Not just now Trip. Please?"

There was a stunned and slightly hurt silence for a few seconds: "Darlin' what's wrong. Ain't ya feeling well?"

Laughing, Malcolm reached down and gently squeezed the growing bulge in Trip's shorts: "I'm fine love. I know this doesn't sound very romantic but I just don't want to be caught halfway up your arse if that bloody radio goes off!"

* * *

It felt like he'd only been asleep for seconds when something began insistently tugging Malcolm back to wakefulness. He squirmed onto his stomach and tried to float back into the dream he'd just been enjoying but an unfamiliar roaring sound gradually crept into his consciousness. Slowly, he forced himself upright and listened: then he smelled the smoke.

"Trip! Trip, wake up! The house is on fire!"

Malcolm raced for the boys' room while Trip, seeing the flickering glow of flames in the darkness of the stairwell, checked their escape routes before helping him to whisk their children down towards the front door.

Coughing hard in the thick, all pervading smoke, they fought the poor visibility and Trip finally managed to get the keys in the lock. "What the fuck happened to the alarms and sprinklers?" Malcolm was too busy rushing his sons to safety to answer.

George and Amy were outside in their own garden, yelling that they'd called the Fire Department and reaching across to help the Tucker- Reeds over the fence and out of harm's way. Malcolm stood, staring back in horror at their blazing home then, stricken, he looked around at Trip and uttered one word: "Father!"

With that, he took off at a run towards the inferno. Tucker sprinted after him and caught hold of his arm just as he was reaching their front door "No, Malcolm. Even if ya found him, ya'd never be able ta get 'im out. He's a big guy. Go back to the boys: ah'll find 'im."

Trip was gone before he could argue and, stomach churning with fear for his husband, he stumbled back to the children.

The Fire Department and medics were arriving now, as were several other neighbours including, Malcolm dazedly noticed, Marsha Coleman, a widow, probably in her early sixties, from a few houses away, who always fussed over the boys if she met them in the street.

It took him a moment to realise that the man standing just behind her was his father.

His shout of anger was cut short as what sounded like an explosion rang out on the still night air. Its echoes were still fading when he launched himself, once more, towards the house: "Trip! Oh my God, Trip!"

Malcolm had barely made it inside before he was choking and gasping for air as the heat seared his lungs. Battling his way towards the guest room, he could just make out, through tear-filled eyes, the still form of his husband, lying face-down in the hallway, burning pieces of the staircase collapsed on top of him.

Ignoring the agony in his own hands, he began throwing the burning wood off Trip's body. His own consciousness was fading, as pain and suffocation began to take their toll, but he finally freed him and managed begin dragging him towards safety.

Steam hissed and belched all around them as the firefighters rushed in and trained their hoses on the blaze. Malcolm jumped when a strong hand gripped his shoulder: "We'll take it from here, sir." He shot a startled look at the owner of the voice as what looked to him like a teenage boy wearing an EV suit smiled patiently at him through his face mask. He nodded dumbly and let himself be led outside as more, equally youthful, equally brawny firefighters gently lifted Trip and carried him to a waiting ambulance.

Malcolm's last conscious thought before collapsing on the lawn was that the firemen were getting awfully young these days.


	3. Chapter 3

The murmur of voices and the insistent beeping of a heart monitor brought Malcolm back to confused awareness. His eyes flickered open and shapes gradually gained definition as he realised that he was in a hospital bed, hooked up to an IV and an oxygen mask, with Marsha Coleman sitting beside him, Jon-Henry asleep in her arms. On the other side of the room, two cots had been made up and Charlie was curled up on one of them, his blond head resting on a teddy bear almost as big as himself.

Glancing down at his body he recognised the emblem of Starfleet Medical on the examination gown he was wearing then registered the new pink skin on his hands and arms, protected by a transparent membrane he'd seen Phlox use on the victims of plasma burns.

With a jolt, he suddenly remembered all that had happened and heard the heart monitor's beeping increase: "Trip! Where's Trip?"

Marsha Coleman reached her free hand out and stopped him as he tried to sit up: "Please try to stay calm, dear. You'll hurt yourself and frighten the boys. Your husband's still in theatre. He was quite badly injured but your doctor friend is with him now and I'm sure he'll be fine." She smiled reassuringly and Malcolm tried to smile back for her. His throat hurt and every breath was an effort but there were two more questions he had to ask: "Where's father? Did he make you come here and look after the children?"

She shook her head "No. I wanted to come. Amy was all set to take them but the boys know me better than they know her, so, when she saw me, she suggested I might be better for them. And I was coming to the hospital with your father anyway."

It took a few moments for Malcolm's over-anxious brain to assimilate what she'd said: "You...were coming anyway? With father?"

"Yes dear. I hope you don't mind but he and I have been...seeing each other for a number of weeks now. We'd been out for dinner and were coming back when we saw the fire. I fetched my car and we followed the ambulance with the boys."

Malcolm was suddenly aware that she was studying his reaction closely: "Your father's in the hallway, dear. He's waiting for news of Trip. He's very concerned that he was hurt whilst searching for him. There's something he wants to talk to you about but I'm sure it can wait until you feel a little better."

Before Malcolm could reply, the door opened and Phlox came in—slightly more subdued than normal but still smiling. "Ah, you're awake." He bustled over to the bed and began checking Malcolm vital signs. "Well, you'll be pleased to hear that the Commander is stable and resting quietly. His condition is very serious—his spine was badly damaged and he suffered severe burns over most of his body—but I believe he'll make a full recovery, albeit slowly. You can see him now, if you wish. I'm sure Mrs Coleman will wait with the children while you're gone."

The IV and oxygen were disconnected and, leaning heavily on Phlox, Malcolm allowed himself to be led, past his father in the corridor, to the adjoining room—where Trip lay on a special biobed with an air-cushion mattress to relieve pressure on his burned body. He glistened with the same membrane that adorned Malcolm's arms, and his fair hair had been all but singed away on one side, but he was still the most beautiful sight that his husband could ever recall seeing. He turned his head and smiled as best he could "Hey, darlin'. We made it—all of us."

Barely able to contain his emotions, Malcolm managed a rather watery smile "Yes. Yes we did. Don't ever scare me like that again, though."

Trip tried to grin but it ended in a wince "Well, darlin', ah figured it was time for me ta be at death's door fer a change. Why should you get all the attention all of the time?"

They made rather stilted conversation until Phlox declared it was time for both of them to rest. Malcolm knew he was right but leaving Trip was more than he could do voluntarily and, eventually, the doctor hoisted him to his feet "Time to go, Lieutenant. You can see him again in the morning."

"Can I touch him? I...I need to ."

Phlox nodded: "The membrane will protect you both from infection. Just be very gentle. I'll leave you together for a moment."

As the door closed, Malcolm leaned over the bed and pressed a careful kiss to Trip's lips: "I love you, Yank, and I could never survive without you. Promise me you'll let me die first."

He felt Trip's arms draw him closer and they joined together in a tentative embrace. A sudden sound startled Malcolm and he pulled back a little: Trip was crying. "Trip, love, are you alright? Am I hurting you?"

There was a loud sniff as his husband tried to compose himself "Only when ya talk 'bout dyin' first. It ain't gonna happen, Malcolm. We're gonna live 'til we're old an' done an' bore each other ta death at the same time."

Tears were pricking at Malcolm's eyes too now and he smiled as one salty drop escaped, ran down his face and plopped onto his husband's lips—to be smilingly licked away. "What a pair we are, love. So much to be grateful for and we're giving ourselves a fit of depression. Tell you what: promise me you won't go without me and I won't go without you—so long as the boys are grown up and don't need us anymore. Deal?"

Trip was smiling again now "Deal. Now, you'd better go before Phox starts playin' the heavy. G'night darlin', love ya forever."

"Same here, love. Sleep well."

Phlox reappeared as if by magic and escorted Malcolm back to his room. The children were both in their cots, fast asleep, and Marsha Coleman stood by the window with his father, watching the first red streaks of dawn appearing in the sky.

Admiral Reed turned suddenly and met his son's gaze. "Malcolm. I have something to tell you."

The tension in the room notched up a little and Marsha clearly felt it "Stuart, I don't think this is the right time..."

Alarm bells were ringing in the back of Malcolm's brain "The right time for what?"

Leaning on his stick, his father stepped towards him "The fire was my fault. You know how old my radio is and its shorted out and caught fire a couple of times if I've had it on for a long time. I always unplug it but, tonight, I was getting ready to go out with Mrs Coleman and I forgot. I disconnected your alarm system too. Bloody thing kept going off whenever I made myself toast. I'm a foolish, careless old man and I'm extremely sorry for endangering you and your family."

Phlox tapped Malcolm lightly on the shoulder "Lieutenant, you really should be back in bed. I'm sure the matter would be much better discussed after you've had some more sleep."

The Denobulan's words flowed lightly across Malcolm's consciousness and he paid them no attention. He was completely transfixed by his father's admission. Never in his life had Stuart Reed explained himself to his son—and he's certainly never apologised for anything. It must have been a tremendous effort on his part, Malcolm thought, to overcome years of pride and stubbornness in order to make the confession—let alone say 'sorry'.

Rheumy eyes were watching Malcolm: searching for his reaction; begging for his forgiveness? He took a shaky step forward—then hauled off and punched his father with every ounce of strength he possessed.

As the Admiral landed on his backside, Malcolm steadied himself on the bed then went after him, fists flailing, ignoring the pain in his hands as the protective membrane split and his burns were exposed to the air. For over forty years, he'd been a hostage to this man, feeling useless and rejected, humiliated and hurt. For over forty years, he'd seen himself as Stuart Reed did, measured himself against his father's standards, and felt weak and cowardly. Only Trip's steadfast love had enabled him to find the real Malcolm Reed—and now his father was telling him how he'd very nearly killed Trip!

Malcolm went berserk. Only dimly aware of Marsha Coleman screaming, the children crying and Phlox trying to restore order in the room, he bypassed pain and his usual common sense in favour of pounding the shit out of Stuart Reed. There was blood on his hands, his gown and the floor as he went after his enemy, receiving as well as giving punishment. Age had not diminished the Admiral's build nor, it seemed, had it greatly eroded his stamina and Malcolm, in his shocked and weakened condition, found that he was fading. Those damnable tears were clouding his vision again as, frustrated at his lack of strength, he collapsed against his opponent—and, to his amazement, found himself wrapped in his father's arms. "Malcolm. Malcolm, stop it. I'll take all the punishment you want to give me but not when you're hurting yourself too."

Furious, Malcolm pulled away and glared venomously at the Admiral "Go to hell, you old bastard. I hate you. I hate you for ruining my life. I hate you for making me what I am. I hate you...I..."

His father was crying. Stuart Reed—the ogre of his childhood—was sitting on the floor with him...crying. Crying and reaching for him. Reaching for him and holding him. Holding him and crying real tears over him.

"I'm truly sorry, Malcolm. I've been so blinded by my ambition for you, so angry when you wouldn't see that I knew what was best for your life, that I never stopped to ask myself what it was YOU needed. If I made you what you are today then, even if you hate me for it, I'm a proud man."

Stunned and exhausted, Malcolm lay in his father's arms, dimly noticing that they were alone together in the room. "Where...where is everyone?"

Stuart Reed chuckled, and Malcolm marvelled that it was the first time he'd ever heard that sound: "I saw Marsha sneaking off with the boys, getting them out of harm's way, and I think that odd doctor feller decided to go for reinforcements. Come on, let's see if we can get ourselves perpendicular again."

It took several attempts before Malcolm was standing, trembling with pain and tiredness, trying to help the Admiral to his feet. With that almost magical timing of his, Phlox, with a male nurse in tow, entered the room and lent the older man a hand before concentrating on his younger patient. "Nurse Hepworth, please take Admiral Reed to treatment room 3, and see that he has suffered no lasting harm, then get someone in here to clean up."

He began examining Malcolm, tutting at the state of his hands. "Lieutenant, I'd be grateful if you'd keep your pugilistic tendencies under control while you are within the confines of this hospital, though I must admit it was the best fistfight I've seen since I last saw Captain Archer lose his temper."

* * *

Marsha Coleman was a practical woman, and generous to a fault, so it was to her home that the Tucker-Reed family de-camped until their house was re-built. Charlie and Jon-Henry adored her and, more importantly, would do anything she asked of them, so Trip found himself liking her too. Malcolm, after a slightly rocky start when he was worried that the boys preferred her to him, discovered she was a warm, maternal woman and learned a lot about child-rearing from her.

There was also the small matter of her now being engaged to his father!

Stuart Reed, for his part, had found himself reborn like a phoenix from the ashes of the fire. He refused to let the dentist replace the front tooth Malcolm had knocked down his throat, insisting that the gap was a daily reminder of the son he was only now allowing himself to love. It was slow going, but he and Malcolm—egged on by Marsha and Trip—were working hard on their relationship and discovering more about each other every day. His respect for his son grew steadily as he heard from Trip about Malcolm's various feats of ingenuity and heroism aboard the Enterprise, and seeing him raise two fine boys, who couldn't hear enough stories about their grandfather's days on the open seas, gave him a new realisation that second chances were, indeed, possible.

Under Phlox's ingenious—if often disturbing—treatment, Trip made a full recovery, enjoying regaling anyone who was fool enough to listen with tales of his recovery at the hands of the Denobulan Dr Doolittle. He had been stunned but delighted to hear of the reconciliation between his husband and the Admiral and took a perverse delight in teasing a bristling Malcolm that they were getting more alike every day.

Madeline Reed's career went from strength to strength and, on the first shore-leave of her captaincy, she had the experience of attending her father's wedding, in the same church in which she'd attended her mother's Memorial Service. She watched in astonishment as the Admiral, looking fitter and happier than she'd seen him for years, and walking without his stick, made his way to the altar—accompanied by his best man, Malcolm Tucker-Reed.

The bride, in an elegant ivory coat and dress and carrying a bouquet of cream roses and purple freesia, was preceded down the aisle by her married daughter, strewing rose petals before her, and followed by two small, blond, pageboys, painstakingly picking them up again and stuffing them in their pockets! Their behaviour confirmed to Madeline that they were her brother's children!

After the service, permitting themselves to gloat a little as the same people who had vilified them on their previous visit to the church now had to stand beside them and have their photograph taken, Trip and Malcolm enjoyed the bright sun and salt sea air in the churchyard. During a lull in proceedings, when the bride and groom were taken away by themselves for pictures, the two men strolled hand in hand towards the Reed family mausoleum.

The obligatory seagull was perched atop Britannia's head and Trip roared with laughter as, right on cue, it relieved itself. He was disturbed, however, not to hear answering laughter at his side. "Malcolm?"

A voice from the rear of the mausoleum startled him: "Trip! Come and see!"

Standing with his husband, he followed his gaze and read the inscription. Below the dates of Mary Reed's birth and death it said "Beloved wife of Stuart and dear mother of Malcolm and Madeline."

He glanced up at Malcolm, and was not terribly surprised to find he was blinking back tears. He hugged him close "Ahh, darlin'—guess he's really learned his lesson, huh?"

Trying not to get salty tear-streaks on Trip's best suit, Malcolm laughed softly "He didn't need to do that. What made him think he needed to do that?"

He pulled back a little and gazed at Trip. "We talk a lot, we really do, but I think I still need to try harder. When the pictures are all taken, I'm going to thank him for this but make him understand that he doesn't have to do anything else. For the first time in my life, he's being my Dad and that's...well, it's...more than enough."


End file.
